


Flickering Candlelight

by gnosiophobic



Series: Footprints in the Snow [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bittersweet, F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:04:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnosiophobic/pseuds/gnosiophobic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belonging.</p>
<p>When they finally reached the nearest room, she softly closed the heavy door behind them, shutting out the news of the south, the incessant leagues of wights and chilling Others, easy death in the snowy, apocalyptic landscape, and everything else that was lost between the onslaught of ice and fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flickering Candlelight

The soft crackling of firewood, salty smell of smoking meat and damp feel of sweat and old wine in the chilled air awoke him.  _Have I been captured once again?,_ he thought groggily, though thoroughly delighted to find himself alive in some darkened cave, sat near a large pile of burning wood.  Steadily, he pulled his arms from under the furs and the familiar sight of his stump somehow relieved him, reminding him of all that had changed.

A quick, rough shuffling jolted him to his feet, as his good hand desperately searched for a sword it couldn’t find.  _Would someone be so stupid to take me alive and hold me prisoner?  ..Or perhaps it’s the wench,_ he thought hopefully, even suggestively.  The thought of her acting so indecent forced a sly smile to his lips, despite the nearing sound of mysterious footsteps.

“It’s about time you got up, Kingslayer,” the voice was gruff, but shockingly familiar.  He knew it immediately.

“Gods, Clegane?  I’d thought you dead.”

“The Seven Kingdoms aren’t so lucky,” his voice lacked any indication of mocking.  “Though, these damned icy fuckers try more to find me dead each day.”  Jaime remembered the Hound only as a man thoughtlessly loyal, but he grew skeptical that his loyalty still extended to those of House Lannister as they once did.  Truly, he was skeptical of everyone but Brienne.

“I must admit I’m exhausted from this hellish winter, and even more tired of games.  Will you take my head here in this cave quickly, or will you instead pry me apart piece by piece and make me beg for mercy as your brother might?”  The large man turned quickly, as if struck.

“Why would I do that?”  His face, incredulous.  _The Cleganes are just as stupid as they say, though twice as strong._

“You mean to say you have no desire to take such a fine piece of land?  You must have always wanted some, being the second-born son and all.  Believe me, I, too, had a younger brother once..  His eyes nearly lit up when I told him I’d joined the Kingsguard,” despite himself, the thought of a young Tyrion filled his shivering chest with a familiar warmth.

“Have you looked outside?” Disgust laced the man’s voice.  “What would I do with land destroyed by winter, and overrun with these fucking frozen beasts?”  Jaime sat upon the pile of furs, unsure when he began to feel so comfortable around such a terrifying man who could kill him in an instant.  “I won’t heel to another rotten tyrant.”

“Bloody Targaryens..”  Jaime muttered.

“They’re no different than any others.  Power corrupts even the best of them.”  Regretfully, Jaime remembered his sweet sister, drowning in her cups, scheming as though each subtle look could mean her life.  She had taken on responsibilities that only consumed her and swallowed her whole.

“What were you doing out there covered in snow anyway, Kingslayer?”

“Dying honorably, I suppose.  But even that is not for me,”  A loud bark of laughter left the large man.

“The Kingslayer dying honorably?  That’s the greatest joke I’ve heard,” his gruff, chapped lips wrapped around a dusty flagon of wine as he poured it down his throat, then wiped his mouth clean with a soiled, woolen sleeve.  Jaime only smiled, remembering he’d thought no different.

“How long was I out?”

“Gods, I don’t know.  Days?  A week, maybe?”  _A week, maybe?_ He could think of nothing but Brienne with Podrick and Sansa, alone and frightened in that same, odd inn, surrounded by wights closing in from all directions with nothing to eat, and no wood to light ablaze and keep them warm.

With a clumsy jerk, he rose to his feet, feeling a bit dizzy as he ascended.  Hurriedly, he searched for his sword and supplies.

“Where do you think you’re going?”  The Hound slurred, sloshing the flagon of wine about, as tiny drips sizzled in the large fire.

“I must return home at once.”

“Home?  The cold has made you mad, too, Kingslayer.”  The moniker fell from the man’s lips with only slightly less repulsion.  Still, Jaime flinched, but continued grabbing what he could.

“Rest another night before you march to your death, at least,” his voice carried none of the concern Brienne’s had when she’d nearly begged him to stay not long ago.  But Jaime ignored him, finally clutching his simple, steel sword and attaching it swiftly to his side.

“You rich fool..”  Clegane sounded only sour, not taunting as he, too, stood and firmly attached a giant broadsword to his hip and another crude, but shining black blade to his belt.  He took a quick, ripping bite from the salted piece of beef he held and tossed another piece to Jaime, without warning.  The piece bounced off Jaime’s chest and landed in a pile of dirt at his feet.  “You’re still weak.  Eat,” he commanded, and Jaime obeyed, dutifully snatching it from the ground, no longer wishing to argue with a man so large.  He dusted the salted meat off with his sleeve the best he could before ripping off a tough slice with his teeth, and laboriously chewing as he continued to pack. 

When he noticed the Hound walking to his horse, attaching saddlebags full of supplies, Jaime stilled.

“What are you doing, Clegane?”

“Coming with you,” he said casually, as he tightened a buckle on his massive, black saddle.

“Gods, why?  You’d associate with a hunted man so freely?”

“My ties with House Lannister are well known.  They’d treat me no nicer than you,” the firm way he spoke allowed no room for dispute.  “Aside from that, you’re the only living person I’ve seen for more than a fortnight now and I’ve grown sick of my own pitiful company.”

 

Winter had truly ravaged the Riverlands.  None of the snow had yet melted, but the breeze remained calm, only whipping occasionally, allowing just enough time to recover before the next frigid gust brushed them.  Buildings stood, but appeared lifeless, and each village was buried under pounds and piles of suffocating white, either abandoned or crawling with wights.  But they rode on, trying to attract as little attention as possible and speaking rarely.  _He talks even less than the wench,_ Jaime thought as an awful weight settled in his belly, reminding him he may only find his oddly charming inn so raided and destroyed.So he pushed the stolen horse harder and Clegane fell into step behind him without saying a word.  Weary as Jaime was, he welcomed the silence.

When wights descended upon them like a herd of scavengers, Jaime found it odd that only he held a fiery torch to quell them.  Clegane offered no help against the wights, holding back and clutching that odd obsidian dagger Jaime had forgotten to ask about in his haste.  He only grew more frustrated at his companion as each icy body blazed.

At least until a creature strode toward them slowly, looking almost ethereal or otherworldly.  Its eyes shone as the brightest frozen blue, beautiful and dangerous, and its skin glistened, the slightest of pale azure with sprinkles of glittering ice.  Just looking upon the thing made Jaime’s skin shiver and prick with little goose pimples that filled him with nothing but dread.  But Clegane shoved his shining, black dagger through its back as though he’d seen hundreds of them, and bested each one effortlessly.

“And just what _is_ that shoddy dagger, Clegane?”  Jaime finally inquired, as he watched the creature squirm and squeal until it fell, lifeless.

“Dragonglass.”  Silence followed, as though the single word was enough of an explanation.  Carefully, the man secured the mysterious weapon back to his belt and Jaime asked again.

“Dragonglass?”

“Fuck if I know what it is, Kingslayer.  All I know is that it works.”  For a brief moment, Jaime swore he could recall a young Tyrion instructing him on the origins of the obsidian blade from some old, dusty, barely-bound leather book.  Cheerfully, Jaime tried his luck on the man, knowing already it was futile.

“Do you have another?”  Clegane only furrowed his brow and pushed his horse ahead, through mounds of deep snow and a chill in the air that only nipped.

“Should we burn it, then?  This.. thing.. whatever it is.”

“Leave it be.  It won’t be coming back.”  The man’s gruff voice contrasted sharply against the soft whip of the wind.  

 

Seeing the shoddy, old inn was more a relief than any Jaime had ever known.  With Clegane at his side, they had slain more wights than he cared to remember.  Each one still slightly man, but lifeless and lost, and he tried not to think on if he recognized their frozen faces when they squealed and wailed under the burn of his torch.  But the Others frightened him much more, so cold, cruel and unlike anything he’d ever imagined, even as a young boy listening to his brother read aloud his favorite stories.  Though fully conscious, atop a fresh horse and with a large, brute of a man by his side, the trip back seemed much longer than he remembered.

“I thought you said you were going home,” Clegane asked, curiously bitter.

“I am home.”  Jaime said it without thinking, letting the words flow from his lips in a way that stifled any internal argument and shattered perfect images of his twin or the once glorious Casterly Rock hidden in deep corners of his mind.  He couldn’t reach the front door fast enough.  And Clegane only grunted as he fell into step behind him once again.  _A loyal hound, indeed._

As he burst through the large wooden door, he was greeted by the familiar musty scent of a place long forgotten, warmth from wood burning, and the arms of a no-longer so distant relative clasping him tight.

“Ser Jaime!”  Sansa exclaimed, holding him so firm he could hardly breathe.

“Didn’t I say I had a knack for escaping the Stranger’s kiss?”  Jaime choked out the words with a sly smile, as he rubbed his good hand over her auburn hair now dull with dirt, just as he would to a much younger child.  Podrick stood in the corner of the room, smiling with glistening eyes begging to burst.  Relieved as he was to see the two of them, Jaime still scanned the room, searching for someone taller, stronger.

“Where’s Brienne?”  Podrick stilled, his mouth fell open, carefully choosing his clumsy words.

“S-she.. she goes after you.. every day.. until she comes back and ..just collapses.”

“She’s not the same without you,” Sansa agreed.  “She wanders about until nightfall.  And when she returns, she’s exhausted and near lifeless.  She’d never say it, but she’s certain you’ve died, yet she continued to search every day until the moon beckons her home.”  _Stubborn as always_ , Jaime thought, barely fighting the urge to rush out to the sea of white once again.

Then Sansa tensed, her grip unknowingly tightened on Jaime’s arm, and her eyes grew wide and wondrous at the sound of familiar, boorish footsteps behind him halting abruptly.  The tension in the room was near palpable, and certainly something Jaime couldn’t begin to understand.  The Hound and the girl only stared at each other through bits of dust that floated in rays of sunlight and shadows from soft and airy bits of snow drifting just outside the window.  Sansa’s lip quivered slightly.

“So, you’ve met?  Of course you have!  How could a man forget such a pretty, young maiden?”  _Or at least I hope she is.._

“Yes.. we have,” though she addressed Jaime, her gaze never faltered from Clegane.  “Ser Sandor Clegane was in the Kingsguard before I left Kings Landing.  He fought nobly in the Battle of Blackwater, if I remember correctly,” she lowered her gaze then, and gave a short, forced bow of her head.  _What in Seven Hells is going on between these two?_

“You know I’m no Ser.  And I never fought bravely in that fucking battle, I ran soon as I could.  But you.. you just keep singing your little songs even after all that’s happened.”  Clegane always spoke with a certain casual hostility, and he only seemed to enjoy speaking as he occupied his hands and mind with other tasks, rifling through his saddlebag.  He sat in the nearest oaken chair, taking a barbaric swig from his flagon full of wine.  Restlessly, Jaime left the two in their odd moment, no longer fighting the urge to chase after yet another person in the piling snow.  _But this one is far more stubborn._ Every tired bone within him prayed he’d find her alive.

Jaime sat alone on an old, wooden bench near the front hall, tightening the laces on his thickest leather boots and securing Clegane’s obsidian dagger to his waist when he heard the door swing open and watched the tall, stubborn woman enter.  Her back was slumped, as she dragged her feet, looking even worse than when she’d received the awful news of Tarth.  He anchored his hand on the bench to keep from running to her.

“You look as though you’ve lost something very dear, wench.  What could it be?”  She stopped mid-step and her brow furrowed.  Until she met his burning gaze.  Flames roared within him, though he sat still as he could.

“Jaime..  I thought you dead..”

“Come closer and be sure,” he beckoned.  And she did, slowly, as though moving at a quicker pace might make him disappear once more.

He stood to meet her, only slightly shy of her impressive height.  _She’s timid for a certainty, but she comes to me willingly,_ Jaime thought, further tearing away remnant visions of his twin.  He took a confident a step forward and met her halfway, reaching his good hand for hers, and pulling her to his chest with passionate force.  Fingers traced up her back and shoulder until they laced through her hair still damp with snowmelt.  And with a half-lidded glance to her cold, reddened mouth, he pushed to her, taking her swollen bottom lip in his, kissing her slow and deep, and leaving no question as to how alive he truly was.  When she pulled back, shaking and breathless, her eyes focused on everything but his.

“What happened to Hunt?” her voice nothing but a whisper over the noise of crackling wood and Podrick’s laughter escaping from another room.  Jaime only shook his head with clear regret.

“He came after me.  He was.. no longer himself.”

“..What should we tell Pod?  He’d grown so attached.”  she sighed heavily, but stayed near, her fingers laced with his.

“The truth,” Jaime replied without hesitation.  “He won’t be a boy much longer.  He should know how dreary and cruel this world can truly be.  The man died because of me, I should be the one to tell him.”  He wondered then if Brienne had ever gotten up the courage to tell Sansa of her mother.  _Doubtless she has.  Guilt weighs too heavily on her._

“Have you seen those awful, frozen, lifeless men here?”  Jaime finally asked, raising his eyes in an attempt to meet hers.  Slowly, she nodded, gaze focused only upon the small part of wooden boards beneath them.

“Every time I saw one, I prayed to the Gods it wouldn’t have your face before I lit them afire.”

“How does every one seem to know about the clever trick with fire but me?”

“Have you not heard the frightening children’s tales?”  He let out a laugh before playfully meeting her lips once again, this time skewed only by a genuine smile.

“Jaime..” she pulled back, sounding much more somber.  “I went after you that day, I searched until I couldn’t any longer.  Truthfully, I went out looking for you every day.  And each time I failed, it felt like a part of me just died, alone and cold.  I was sure the Gods were laughing at me, just as the men in Renly’s camp, destroying me, taking more and more until I was left with nothing..  I cursed myself for letting you go at all.”

Despite her relieved smile, a heavy tear fell from the corner of her eye and swept down her cheek until Jaime caught it with his only thumb and tightened his embrace around her, in some misguided attempt at protection, knowing all too well she needed none.  _She’s strong, but the wounds inside still heal.  And they reopen all too easily._ Analyzing her had become a favorite pastime, and he wished to know all he could, assembling her like some complicated puzzle where a few pieces stayed hidden.

Grasping her hair once again, he grazed his lips across her cheek, her jaw and her ear before whispering into it.

“It was foolish to leave.  But I can promise, I’ll never do it again.”  He couldn’t be sure if he simply meant the circumstances of his departure or something much greater, much more truthfully raw.  But when her familiar musty scent enveloped him, he began to doubt he spoke of just the storm.  Or at least not a storm that clouds and winds could create.  He kissed her lips again to be sure.  And she met him with need and longing, running shaky hands across the back of his shoulders and down the arch of his spine.  But when his fingertips explored just enough to find skin hidden by soggy cloth and damp wool, she pulled away, as he half-expected.  A choked noise escaped her throat as though she would speak, but the words stuck there instead.  He only waited for her to find the courage.

“..Perhaps.. we..”  Jaime nearly shivered with anticipation, certain she would say only the opposite of what some deep part of him hoped.  “I mean.. I wouldn’t want someone to find us again.”

“Of course, my lady,” Jaime resigned, slowly moving his hand from her and backing away one heavy footstep at a time.

“No.  I meant..  I meant that.. maybe we should use a room upstairs instead of.. darkened hallways..”  His mouth found that familiar, mocking grin, unable to resist an easy jape.

“You mean to have your maidenhead taken by an old, graying cripple?”  The darkest shade of pink ascended from her neck, covering her face in a way she didn’t bother to hide, not that she could.

“No,” she answered without hesitation, and Jaime felt another twinge of expected disappointment.  Her eyes searched the ground.  “But I’d give it willingly to you.”

For a moment, he thought he felt his heart stop right before it began to beat wildly in his chest.  Racing and anxious, cool air and firewood smoke caught in his throat, leaving him with no mocking words, no malicious retorts, just a single hand reaching for one of hers, filling him with something warm and complete, innocent, but real.  He tugged at her arm, heading for the stairs with the determination of a man headed to war, fighting not for fame or fortune, but for his family, his home.

Sunlight had descended hours ago, and Jaime was oddly pleased to find Clegane passed out drunk on the wooden floor with Sansa and Podrick nearby, huddled under furs, ready for whatever unbearable cold this night may bring.

“The Lady and I require rest.  If anything happens, we’ll be upstairs.  But, please, wake Clegane before coming after us,” Jaime grinned mischievously as he whispered to Podrick, the only one of them who looked even the slightest bit still awake.  The boy may have groaned sleepily in response, but Jaime couldn’t be sure.  Instead he focused on those things that usually came so naturally, like breathing at a steady rate, or placing one foot before the other, climbing the sturdy set of wooden stairs.  The ascension felt endless.

When they finally reached the nearest room, she softly closed the heavy door behind them, shutting out the news of the south, the incessant leagues of wights and chilling Others, easy death in the snowy, apocalyptic landscape, and everything else that was lost between the onslaught of ice and fire.  All that remained was the old, dusty bed, the soft light from a candle Jaime lit upon entering, and two warriors standing anxious, but ready.

Brienne stayed by the door, stiff and unsure, and Jaime met her there, holding lips hostage to his own, as he pushed her back to the wall, grasping hastily at her neck.  Their chests met and hearts pounded as if in a race or readying for battle, standing scared on the front line.  Instinctively, Jaime felt the need to rush, rather than savor, something he’d never done, never having felt quite safe enough to slow himself and imprint each touch in his memory.  But now, with Brienne, he could take the night and scream out with pleasure, loud as he pleased.

_With death threatening from all corners, I will make this slow and sweet. Instead of crying out in pain as we die, we will smile, remembering this one moment when nothing else mattered_ , Jaime thought as he slowed his fervent kiss into something so agonizingly gradual that each slight movement, whether clumsy or flawless, pressed upon his chest and into his gut, nearly forcing a tear from his own eye.  Brienne’s lips fumbled occasionally, confused by this new, exquisite rhythm he found so intoxicating.  But soon it no longer mattered, as his mouth found her neck in the same intense, but unhurried pace.

“Why is Clegane here?”

“Gods, wench.  All of this and you’re thinking of Clegane?”  He throbbed despite the frown stretching across his face.

“Is he not dangerous?  I thought him dead,” her tone suggested she forced herself to focus on something more simple, something curiously less troubling than the feeling of hot breath ghosting across her neck.

“He’s loyal enough.  The man saved me from freezing, after all.  Be a bit more respectful,” he smiled against her skin.

“I’m just--” was all she could argue before Jaime consumed her protest once again with slow-moving lips.  And she yielded, following his lead away from the wall and to the shoddy bed, lying flush under his chest.  Gingerly, his shortened arm snaked beneath her, hidden under the small of her back, and she arched into him, pushing heavily on all the skin that sang with want while his lips searched for something new.  As his mouth and tongue traced the lower border of her ribs, the side of her waist and the taut, but soft skin just above her breeches, he sorely noticed how stiff she stayed, the reservation in her movements, how her body lacked the natural fluidity that came so easy to him.  _Perhaps she’s changed her mind.  Perhaps she only pities me, a one-handed man barely able to care for himself without dying in the snow,_ Jaime tried to shake the thought.

“Are you sure about this?” her inhibition only filled him with doubt, though she nodded shyly.  “I’d never forgive myself if it caused you even the tiniest bit of regret, you know,” he brought himself closer to her face, unable to resist the spot of skin just below her ear.  Pathetic as he felt, the heat of her stilled skin soothed him.  _If she turns me away now, I’d understand and leave, even through my own selfish dejection._

“It’d be an awful thing to die a maid with someone so close,” she admitted, her voice still unsteady.

“Tell me that’s not the only reason,” his tone painfully close to begging.  “Tell me it will be something you carry with you until the day the Stranger claims you.  Tell me it will replay in your mind on even the darkest nights where worries consume you and sleep eludes you.”

“It will,” was all she could say as she tore the heavy, woolen tunic over his head, then tossing it to the floor.  Her fingertips and gaze now preoccupied by the myriad of bruises and scars tainting his chest, curiously mapping the marks with a touch so light, he shivered despite the warmth between them.

He moved his own hand up her tunic in response, lightly brushing across a small breast, firm with excitement.  And she gasped, some combination of shock and arousal, instinctively tugging at the edge of the cloth, covering herself as quickly as she could.  Jaime desperately wanted to tell her to relax, to give in and enjoy, but his own insecurities stopped him short as they crept in from under the doorway, and darkened the room with ominous shadows.  With a sigh, he moved away from her, sitting up straight on the bed.

“Please tell me what you want, my lady.  I’ll leave you be, if you desire.”  Cautiously, she opened her mouth to speak, but no words escaped, and her gaze trembled.  Jaime reached for his tunic, preparing himself for another night of tormenting sleep, alone and cold.

Swiftly, her hand grasped his shortened arm.  

“Don’t go,” she whispered, so soft he worried it was imagined.  But when her lips gently grazed the puckered skin of his stump, all doubt began to fade, leaving nothing but the small room where they sat.

_Hesitation runs both ways.  She can’t say it, but she needs this as much as I._ And with a swell of newfound confidence, he gently pushed her against the bed, smothering her lips, and settling atop her, as fingertips begged to find the soft flesh of her breast once again.

“It’s just you and me,” he whispered.  “Right now, nothing matters but that.  And whatever should happen to the both of us, always know that on this night, you were intensely desired by a broken man who was nothing without you.”  She shook her head, ready to argue, but was silenced easily by the brush of his palm over the tightened pink skin of her breast.  And this time, she didn’t flee, and instead pulled him closer, desperately trying to match the rhythm he set, pressing onto her lips, and occasionally searching her calmed mouth with his tongue.

When he pulled his hand from under her tunic, he swore he heard a slight whimper of protest, at least until he pried the boots and stockings from her feet and promptly tugged her breeches down past her ankles.  As expected, her eyes grew wide, forcing another shadow of uncertainty over his thoughts.  But instead of stiffening or hiding away, she reached for the back of his neck and brought him to her quivering lips.  And he laid beside her, kissing casually, as his hand roamed dangerously close to the unknown spot between her thighs.  One brave finger slowly stroked between the heavily moistened lips, and she jolted with a surprised scream.

“Shh..” he whispered into her ear, kissing the lobe after.  “That’s supposed to feel good.”

“It does..” she admitted, breathless.  “My septa once told me everything was painful and only whores felt pleasure,” a rather ironic and wanton moan escaped her lips when his hand found the perfect spot.  He brushed it over slowly and relentlessly, as waves of arousal clouded his own thoughts, sending anything practical or logical bubbling to the top until it burst and disappeared.

“Your septa lied,” Jaime laughed.  “Though, it may hurt for a moment, but it will pass,” his mouth moved to say the words his mind never processed.

Somehow, all of this felt so different from Cersei, even aside from the obvious.  Where his twin had often made a flamboyant display of girlish sounds when locked away from the spying eyes of others, Brienne stifled hers, even when the rest of the Seven Kingdoms lie in ruins.  And her modesty only excited him further, forcing his hand into some unknowingly fast rhythm and his mouth upon the soft bud of her breast.  Suddenly, she tensed beneath his touch, eyes forced open, and her large forearm pushed against her mouth, hushing a loud, uncontrollable shriek.  Then with a final sigh, she collapsed beside him, breathless, as moments of blissful silence passed before she spoke.

“Gods, did she lie,” each word punctuated by the rise and fall of her heaving chest.

“Perhaps next time I’ll use my tongue instead,” he teased, knowing the exact shade of pink her face would be without turning to look.

 

She remained open to him, no longer bothering to furrow her brow shamefully and pretend she didn’t enjoy each soft caress.  And no longer flinching when his fingers traced the small, maroon indentions of her ruined cheek.  Oddly, she still covered her breasts when he finally removed her tunic and only wet kisses along the satiny skin of her ribs finally coaxed her arms to shyly move away.

Throughout the evening, his breeches had grown increasingly uncomfortable, so he finally divested them, slinging them carelessly to the floor, where they landed next to her newly settled tunic, easily forgotten.

“Tell me this is what you want,” the uneasy words escaped as he crawled back to her in the dingy bed.

“Jaime..” she kept her eyes closed, hiding away his most favored feature, though it let her speak freely.  “Some part of me has wanted this since you saved me at Harrenhall, since you sent me on the quest for Sansa with your best sword.  Though I always knew it could never be, and I cursed myself for my thoughts.  Me, an ugly maiden, only waiting to marry some awful suitor of my father’s choosing, and you, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.  But now that it can.. that we can.. and knowing that you’d want to.. I feel as though my heart may burst.  And, yet, I wonder if it’s all just a lovely dream.  If it is, please be kind and don’t wake me.”  Gently, he positioned himself atop her as he kissed her again, with the unhurried pace of a man fully appreciating each passing moment.

“If this is a dream, it’s the best I’ve had.”

Then her body consumed him, pulling him to her core, the joining only evidenced by an overwhelming sense of complacency and the shocked groan released from Brienne’s throat.  The sound was unlike any he’d heard from her before, far deeper and more exposed than any she’d made during a spar.  Cautiously, he waited for the tension to smooth before he settled on a lazy, but divine tempo.  Her unskilled motions were clumsy, but the sensation overwhelmed him so that he failed to notice.

Lost in some blue sea of elation, his lips lingered just above hers, only brushing slightly with each thrust.  And eyes gazed hazily, deep and burning, as though he’d never felt so connected to another.  _With her cheeks aflush, eyes bright and wide, looking so beloved, she’s absolutely breathtaking_.

Fingers entwined above her head, anchoring him to the shoddy feather mattress though he felt he could easily float.  Cheeks carefully scraped one another, and his mouth eagerly found the line of her jaw in quick, uncoordinated and desperate strokes.  Each slow movement forward tore at his resolve, ripping away the final pieces of whatever he had once been, lulling him to some new, intense place made bright by only her.

Soon, he knew the edge approached much too quickly.  He’d wanted to make it last until the Stranger may take them, until mad Targaryens burned the abandoned inn, until some awful wight pried them apart with icy fingers, but his consciousness exploded instead, forcing his flickering eyes closed, sending him down a mystical spiral of bliss.  Everything was forgotten but the feel of his skin sliding across hers in some heavenly, encompassing warmth, leading him to a place he never wished to leave.

With a heavy-beating heart, throat gasping for breath, and trails of cool sweat dampening her shoulder, he rolled to her side, grasping her tight, kissing any place his lethargic, but devout lips could find.

A glistening tear raced down the tangled skin of her scarred cheek, past the genuine smile that graced her lips, finally crashing upon the dingy cloth sheet tinged with a small spot of crimson.

“Did I hurt you?” he whispered with a raw tone revealing more concern than he could comprehend.

“No, not at all,” the tear smudged under the weight of her palm.  “I’m not sure why I cry when I feel so blessed.”

As he laid beside her, firmly embracing her shoulders and forgetting the cold sting of air, he recounted each touch, each kiss, each word, forcing it some place deep within his mind, only praying the memory would come again when he found his death, either tomorrow or some years later.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy, I'm admittedly a bit nervous about posting this one. I'm not sure if I'm just tired from my crazy schedule lately or if I'm just not totally comfortable writing smut, but this one was tough.
> 
> Again, sorry for the delay, guys. Thank you so much for sticking with me!


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